The Woes of Using a Telephone
by Jollie Killjoy
Summary: PostHogwarts. Draco Malfoy had it all... until he got stripped of all his magic, and possibly a few articles of clothing. By a strange twist of fate, he is then forced to room with his favorite people, Ron, Harry, & Hermione. Plotless? No. Insane? Uhuh.
1. Those Blasted Secretaries

The Woes of Using a Telephone

By Jollie Killjoy

**A/N (not Author's Note, but simply Aggravating Nonsense... wow, that was a bad pun): **holy crackers! I've actually gotten around to posting this! Haha, I wrote a lot of it on an airplane, but it needed some pretty heavy editing and filling out, so... yea. I pretty much have no point to that. Anyways! I would like to warn the reader (and hopefully, I have one): due to the fact that this is a total parody, some of the things that will happen in the fic will not make sense. I don't necessarily mean that it won't be canon (though I might forget some small details, please tell me if I do), but uh... it will probably have OOC moments and the like for the sheer sake of humor. So if you're incredibly concerned with getting characters one hundred percent right, you probably shouldn't be reading this. Oh, and did I mention possible omission of the laws of physics? That's always fun.

**x x x x x x x x x x x**

"Roxanne, would you care to make yourself useful and fetch me some treacle tarts?" Draco Malfoy snapped at his scantily clad secretary, twirling an expensive Cuban cigar between his fingers.

"Yes, _sir,_" she replied resentfully, wondering why she hadn't become a stripper instead; it would certainly be less degrading.

"Quickly now! Treacle tarts are a very important matter, and Roxy, you know I _must _have them in order to concentrate," the platinum blonde added sharply. He examined the large stack of complaints in front of him: a Doxy infestation, a row with the Goblins, a Veela stealing some stuffy old witch's husband (_again)_... it was tedious, sometimes, to be the head of the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, but it definitely paid off. Draco rather enjoyed smiting furry little creatures, not to mention nature in general. It had no use, really. I mean, you couldn't get _hair gel_ in the wild. It was like some kind of sick, cruel, fresh-scented form of torture. His adoring public _needed _him to smite it. Not to mention, the job came with a big swiveling chair. Draco loved his swiveling chair.

"Of course, _sir._" Roxanne gritted her teeth and strode to the door. _Should've worn a nun's outfit and granny underwear to the bloody interview, _she thought to herself regretfully as she opened the office doors and strode out, her obscenely tight skirt making it near impossible to do so in haste. _But then again, I wouldn't put it past the bloody idiot to be into that sort of thing. Merlin, the things a person does in moments of desperation... _

"Oh, and Roxanne!" Draco added, taking another puff of his cigar. "The mail, yes?"

"I wouldn't dare forget, _sir." _

Draco smiled smugly, sinking into his cushioned leather seat and taking a small spin. _It's good to be in charge, _he decided to himself, inhaling the chair's scent: it smelled like his French cologne. And of dead cow, being leather and all, but Draco chose to ignore that. He chose to ignore a lot of things.

Suddenly, the phone rang. Seeing as this meant real work, he couldn't choose to ignore it. Damnit. Why didn't he have a secretary for this?

"Head of the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, who am I speaking to?"

"You sound rather irate, Drake. Drink a cup of coffee or something."

Draco quirked a carefully manicured eyebrow. Coffee? Well, no question as to whom _this _was. "Blaise, what in the seven hells are you calling me for?"

"Interrupted your chair time, have I? Apologies, apologies. I simply thought you'd like to know about the mortal danger you're in," the Italian drawled.

"Danger?" Draco snorted. "_Right. _Now, honestly, get to the point. I have important tasks awaiting." He glanced at his door briefly; Roxanne should have arrived with the treacle tarts already. Blasted secretaries.

"I'm completely serious about the danger bit, actually," Blaise's tone suddenly lost its sarcastic quality. "There's some deranged former auror out there who believes the Dark Lord is still alive, and he's attacking all who have had some sort of affiliation with the Death Eaters, direct or indirect; seeing as the man was previously locked up in St. Mungo's, I suggest you join me in my grandfather's Italian manor until the Ministry arrests him. They presume he may possibly be a serious threat, but have kept the matter hushed, for the time being. The only reason I'm in on this is because I have some _very_ elaborate connections with one of Mother's discarded husbands. Vince, Greg, and Pansy are coming along as well, you know," he added.

Draco pondered this for a moment. "And _why_ would some old madman be after me, again?"

Blaise sighed in exasperation. "Drake, lets list the facts: your father barely got out of Azkaban with a clean reputation five years ago, and there are quite a number of fanatics who believe he still possesses Death Eater values; it has been brought to the attention of the media long ago that the Dark Lord himself ordered you to kill Dumbledore; and you still have the dark mark on you, not to mention the fact that you're in a position of power, which makes you rather vulnerable. Namely, your power is limited to fuzzy little beasts and a few dead people," Blaise snorted, marveling, yet againat his masterful grip on demeaning commentary. _Why haven't I won something for this yet?_ he wondered, feeling a bit cheated, and decided to inquire his personal secretary about the matter. "So what do you say, mate?"

"Your treacle tarts, _sir,"_ Roxanne entered, careful not to stumble; after a year of working for department head, the required immorally high-healed boots _still _needed some getting used to. "And the mail."

Draco immediately hung up. Who cared about some raving lunatic who was after his head? He had _pastries._

"Ah, thank you, Roxanne," he received his tray and stack of mail with much enthusiasm, popping a tart into his mouth. Hah, barmy aurors. _Honestly. _What was Blaise _thinking?_ Always been slightly paranoid, that one. And anyways, Italy wasn't exactly the safest country on earth. Enrique Iglesias was from Italy, after all. Or was it Spain? _Ah, same difference, _Malfoy concluded haughtily. _Yes, it is definitely a good decision to stay in England. Of course. We have Monty Python._

Taking a bite out of the last treacle tart, Draco decided to sort through the large stack of mail. _Let's see... Mother and Father, Ted Nott, Playboy magazine subscription... Wait, what's this? _Draco eyed a green envelope amongst the pile of tan and white. Pulling it closer, he examined it; Draco liked green. It was more of an olive than his preferred shade of forest green, but it was green, nonetheless. He turned it over to see who it was from, but instead of finding a return address, his eye were met with bold, black letters that said: FREE STUFF INSIDE. THIS IS NOT A BLATANTLY OBVIOUS SCHEME TO HURT YOU. NO, REALLY. _Hm__, no return address._Draco pondered for a moment._ This can't be safe... can it? Oh well. It says 'free stuff'. _

As Draco carefully slid his finger under the opening of the envelop, the world suddenly went into slow motion mode; a full orchestra materialized and, out of nowhere, started playing dramatic 'oh-shit-something-horrible-and-climaxy-is-totally-going-to-happen-_right_-_now_-so-pay-attention-folks' music (Slash of Guns N Roses, straight out of the 80's, materialized with them and started soloing like crazy, but the conductor kicked him out because he didn't like his hair). The lights in the office flickered and darkened, an array of thick smoke and multicolored sparks started spurting out of the envelop, and many other overblown clichés involving buildup to a very important event took place, when suddenly, Draco ate another treacle tart.

...And _then _he fainted.

**x x x x x x x x x x x**

Draco found himself lying under his table. Propping himself up a bit, he realized his temples were throbbing. And that he was seeing the world in smudges. A momentary horror swept over him as he realized he looked horrible in glasses.

The blond sighed. This was definitely embarrassing. He rubbed his eyes, but his vision refused to clear. _Wonderful._ Appreciative that no one had walked in to find him in such a state, he fumbled around to get out from under the desk, until --

"I've typed the document regarding Goblins, _sir," _the young voice of his secretary rang through the room, mingling with the click of her high heals. "Uh... if you don't mind me asking, what are you doing under there, sir? And the lighting in here is rather dim for work, isn't it," she remarked, raising an eyebrow, and wondered if there was a reason for the lack of illumination. She then asked herself if she _wanted _to know in the first place.

"I am meditating, Roxanne," Draco replied haughtily, hastily making up a lie. "I've decided to reach out to the merciful hands of Buddha and get in touch with my feminine side." Yes, believable enough. If anyone could sound condescending momentarily after finding themselves unconscious under a table, it was definitely Draco. He got out from under the desk, betraying no sign that he thought he was doing anything out of the ordinary.

And he wasn't. Of _course_ not.

Concluding that the light must have gotten damaged somehow, he rummaged through the drawers in his desk. "Right then, here it is," he remarked unconcernedly, and picked a wand up. "_Lumos__!"_

And in a dramatic moment of action-packed suspense, the wand did absolutely nothing.

Draco glared at the offending rod and cleared his throat. "_Lumos__!"_

The wand seemed to shrug at Draco indifferently. In response, Draco fumed.

Suddenly, Roxanne emitted a small, startled gasp. Her eyes seemed to be fixed on an object on Draco's table, specifically a green envelop. The fair-haired man walked over to it and picked it up, wondering vaguely if Roxanne was fond of olive green (secretaries have no taste, frankly).

As he picked it up, unexpected memories of the smoke and sparks that previously burst out of the envelop flooded him, and orchestra music echoed in his mind. It was the orchestra music that sent him into a mild state of panic.

And then he realized that the bold words on the envelop had changed to say: VREI SA PLECI DAR NUMA NUMA IEI, NUMA NUMA IEI, NUMA NUMA NUMA IEI.

Romanian pop lyrics. Draco grimaced. Now he was _sure_ he was doomed; Maybe Enrique Iglesias wasn't so bad after all.

But a Malfoy did not turn around and run in the face of fear. Well... not when the situation didn't involve ferrets. Or Unicorns. Or Blast-Ended Skrewts. Actually... Malfoys tended to do quite a bit of running. But in a rare moment of courageousness, Draco decided that he would grab danger by the horns and tell it to go fuck itself. With that pleasant thought in mind, he marched straight out of his office and into the Department of Mysteries.

**x x x x x x x x x x x**

Draco was standing self-importantly at the entrance leading to the Spell Damage Department of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. His mouth curling into a determined sneer that would surely make Lucius wet himself in pride (or tell someone else to do it for him), every bit of him appeared to be the aristocratic snob he was raised as. Inside, however, he was panicked sick; even the Mystery workers couldn't figure out where the letter had come from, or what it did. The only information Draco had regarding it was the fact that it disabled his powers.

...momentarily, of course. _I will be fixed up in no time. Without a doubt. _Draco rid himself of all thoughts that stated otherwise. He was rather good at ridding himself of thoughts. Especially if they disagreed with his general opinion.

"May I help you?" A sour looking witch with thick-rimmed glasses asked.

"I would like to see a Doctor regarding a certain unliftable and unidentified jinx," Draco declared to the secretary.

She raised an eyebrow that Draco thought needed a bit of plucking. He considered gracing the poor soul and taking her out for a makeover once he was finished with this whole disablement business.

"Your name?"

"Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."

The witch checked through a long scroll. "You do not have an appointment, Mr. Malfoy," she stated matter-of-factly, looking down on the man through her glasses.

Her swiveling chair seemed to be larger than Draco's. It was forest green, too. His wrath reached unimaginable heights; never doubt the wrath of a blonde.

Draco found himself with the urge to pound on the woman's desk. "Excuse me! Miss, this is a matter of life and death we are talking about! Am I, head of the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, undisputed ruler of the universe, and critic extraordinaire, being denied help at a time of crisis due to some miniscule lack of _appointment?_"

The secretary blinked for a moment. "Yes."

It was at that point in time that Draco decided that, putting aside bad hair, secretaries are the root of all evil.

**x x x x x x x x x x x**

_I have been reduced to sitting on a bench. I have been reduced to sitting on - a - bench. _Draco slowly took the idea in. Here he was, in the middle of London, powerless as a mere _muggle_and sitting on a bench. A bench on which commoners, petty crooks, and _homeless people _sat. _I bet I could catch Malaria from this, _he thought, grey eyes darting all over the wooden seat._ Or AIDS, or Appendicitis, or SARS, or Merlin knows what. _He clutched himself defensively. It was a wonder he wasn't dead yet._ I will never survive this; my poor, delicate body will be found damaged on the side of the street and my adoring public will weep, _weep _for me... _

Even in his frantic situation, Draco was able to recognize a solution that countless beforehand had found whilst in the murky depths of misery: it was time to hit a bar and get smashed. Really, _really _smashed.

**x x x x x x x x x x x**

Draco slammed his mug down. "Freddy my man, gimme a... red sunset with, ah -- with a some Bacardi or somethin'... what ya call 'em... 'em things... pink flamingos..."

Freddy sighed in exasperation. "We don't have any of those tonight. In fact, they don't really... exist."

"Well a, get me one anyways, you bloody, you..." Draco racked his drunken brain for insults. "_Turnip!_"

The bartender carelessly got back to filling a particularly large mug with Budweiser; three years of working at a bar kind of numb one's sense of shock.

Draco didn't care that the bartender wasn't listening. "I, I used 'ta be a wizaaaaard, you know, a wizard I says!" he slurred, waving his arms around dramatically. "With them magical stick things, you know, those wavy sparkly... sparkly..."

"I understan' ya, mate," a large man in a sharp, tailored suit suddenly piped up. "I... wanted to become a ballerina... Mummy never did want me to... to be a ballerina..."

The two men broke into agonized sobs. In an outburst of sympathy, Freddy rolled his eyes.

Meanwhile, two shabby-looking men in the back of the bar were discussing a rather sinister matter.

"He took our spot, the blonde one," muttered the first man, attempting to thoughtfully stroke his untamable red beard. "I never thought anyone could do it. He must've tapped into some kind of mysterious force of indignity, _indignity _I'm tellin' ya!" he added for the desired ominous effect. He thought himself rather good at being ominous.

The second man smoked a pipe that let out a rather questionable-smelling smoke. "We must defeat this intruder, once and for all. Knights of the bum table!"

The two hit their mugs together. The smoker then cleared his throat thoughtfully.

"Now, let us review our stance: we have vast beer bellies. He has gelled hair. This gives us an advantage."

"He called the bartender a turnip, though," the bearded man mused. "The closest I've ever come to was a squash."

His companion in their noble war considered the idea. "You have a point there, Bacchus. What do you suggest we do?"

"I say we --"

"-- have sex with him!"

The whole bar collectively turned towards the entrance, to spot two people arguing with an exceptional vehemence. A few blokes near the telly started chanting for a brawl.

"And why should I believe that you didn't have sex with him! I _clearly _saw you pick up undergarments from his apartment yesterday --"

"Ron Weasley, you are possibly the most ignorant, pigheaded, rash idiot I have _ever_ met! I am most definitely _not _shagging Marcus Flint, and I did _not have a threesome with two Irish immigrants! _And how would you know where his apartment is, anyways? Were you _following _me, or does someone have a bit of a crush on dear Mark --_"_

"YOU TAKE THAT BACK, HERMIONE!"

"You _wish_!"

It was then that Malfoy snapped out of his sloshed fury, and suddenly recognized the people at the entrance to the bar: Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, and -- his former rival and a devoted Gryffindor, no less -- Harry Potter.

The blonde considered his options. He could not go crawling back to Blaise, for the highly caffeinated Italian would, without a doubt, mock him until the end of his days or, even worse -- make him do the dishes in a flowery apron and a hairnet. The rest of his old school friends would most likely ridicule him as well (possibly in a less sadistic manner). He was _not _going to reveal his weakness to his people from the Ministry seeing as they would undoubtedly use it against him, going back to his mother's and father's was unthinkable, and Roxanne... was a secretary. Thus far, secretaries have been confirmed to be some kind of occultist force sent from the fiery depths of hell to torture him.

The do-gooder triad, however... maybe they had a spare room or something...

No. He would not do it. Ever. _Ever._And another one for good measure.

...would he?


	2. Flowery Yet Strangely Sinister

The Woes of Using a Telephone

By Jollie Killjoy

**A/N (Oh no!**** Not _another _one!): **You know, I neglected my other story to post the second chapter of this. Well, not exactly neglected, seeing as I _do _have part of its next chapter written, but still... couldn't help myself, this is very amusing to write, hah. Now, anyways, thank you so much, reviewers! Seriously, reviews make my day. Even if you hate this, I ask that you review, telling me how idiotic my story is (the public has the right to know!). And... that would be all. Is it sad that this is one of my shortest author's notes yet? (Yes, yes it is).

**x x x x x x x x x x x **

"So, um... what do you think we should do with him?"

"Err..."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were for once, at a loss of words. They were standing (with a great deal of confusion) in front of a heap of expensive clothes and platinum blonde hair that appeared to be a very unconscious (and definitely _very _drunk) Draco Malfoy. Just moments ago, he had stumbled over to them, fell on Harry's shoulder, mumbled something about "needing a room" and "devoting his life to the righteous cause of eliminating secretaries," and collapsed. Leaving Harry buried beneath him.

No slash jokes, now. _Please_. Harry quickly wriggled out from under the man and got up without so much as a single dirty thought in mind. You must remember that he is the pure, heroic, and virginal protagonist of our story, folks.

...At least we think he is. Rita Skeeter has been trying to prove otherwise for years.

Hermione looked around the bar for a moment. Her eyes fell upon a pair of tattered men that seemed to be doing a jig of glee while chanting something about their positions of honor being returned to them. It was somewhat frightening. "Well, we can't just leave him here..."

"But he's a _Slytherin_ and a _Malfoy_. Are you sure we should even be _touching _him?" Ron's face twisted in disgust. "We might catch Snapeicitus."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "HonestlyRon. Have you been looking up Latin root words again?"

Ron averted his eyes sheepishly. "A man has to have hobbies, you know."

"Let's just bring him to our flat and see what happens from there," Harry remarked, suddenly deciding to be the voice of reason in this story. Because otherwise, he would be brooding. And no one likes a brooding Harry.

Ron pointed a condemning finger at him. "Spy! Traitor! Conspirator! SESQUIPEDALIAN!"

Harry stared at his redheaded friend for a moment. "Err. What?"

"The authoress learnt that word in her English class the other week. She thinks it is very spiffy, and has decided to ignore the fact that I never say big words."

"Ah, well that explains everything."

The two bums previously doing a jig were now telling knock-knock jokes. The trio decided that this was their cue to haul Draco up and immediately leave.

**x x x x x x x x x x x **

Draco started feeling around his surroundings, eyes shut tightly; he did not seem to be able to open them. Realizing that he had been in a situation like that earlier that day, he let out an angered grumble, making him sound like a particularly irked ferret. He finally managed to grasp a very fluffy pillow, and clutched it for comfort. It smelled of Spanish cologne.

...Spanish? Wait, this wasn't right. His cologne was most definitely _not _Spanish. _Enrique Iglesias_ probably had Spanish cologne.

...Wait a second. Enrique again. He was referenced in the first chapter as well, the blonde was sure of it. Why did that bastard keep _returning? _

Draco decided that this story is very sadistic.

"Hey, I think he's waking up..."

Draco twitched for a moment. An unknown voice. Someone must be in his apartment, most probably to steal his unnervingly extensive collection of Playboy magazines.

"He is? Oh _no_..."

Or his Monty Python DVD's. They were the only muggle possessions he deemed worthy of having, along with the magazines.

"Wonder if he actually remembers anything?"

Or it _could _be his leather trousers. His leather trousers were the epitome of sexy. Or of evil. According to some, anyways. He supposed either way worked.

"I doubt it..."

Or it could be Marcus Flint's whip and --

No. Let us not go there. Marcus was such a whore, anyways.

Draco decided that it was time to strike.

"WHO THE HELL ARE YOU AND WHY ARE YOU IN MY APARTMENT!"

**x x x x x x x x x x x **

A man in dark robes was stroking a particularly evil-looking cat, causing it to purr appreciatively. He was sitting on a throne-like chair in a rather bombastic mansion, in which light filtered only through majestic-looking stained glass windows, creating an atmosphere that was striving to be eerie, but had not quite reached that level (possibly due to the fact that there were vases of daffodils scattered about the building). It was at that moment that he decided that he was the very definition of crafty; he had managed to attack countless people (some in rather powerful positions) without leaving so much as a trace, as well as fool the ministry into believing that he was some mere auror gone bad. No one had even _suspected _his true identity yet. His plan was genius. Fail-proof. No one could think of a better one. _Ever_.

The last victim was taken. It was his time to prevail.

"Ernie, call everyone forth for a meeting," the man shouted brusquely to his servant, his cat meowing in agreement. If the cat wasn't a furry, plump little feline, it would definitely be his yes-man in a sharp black blazer, agreeing to his every command and believing every step he took to be absolutely reasonable.

Even that whole "Romanian pop to strike fear upon our victims!" bit. Which everyone else thought was ridiculous.

They just didn't seem able to fully grasp the horror of Romanian pop. Imbeciles.

"Yes, your High Badgerness," the servant replied and quickly scurried off.

"And do hurry up this time," the man added, smirking all the while. For now, he only had a few loyal followers, but he knew he would be getting more soon; with minions would come power, and respect would follow soon after.

For too long now, Hufflepuffs had been mocked, he had decided. They were the kind, loyal, gullible, and _boring _bunch. Oh, but not anymore! The man was going to prove to everyone just how evil and conniving Hufflepuffs really were. And they were most definitely not boring; it is fact that most winners of the annual Wizarding Knitter's Competition to date have been Hufflepuffs. Knitting is well known to be a very intense sport.

...Sort of.

The Hufflepuffs still weren't boring, though.

"We are here, your Yellow Excellency," Ernie bowed low, along with his fellow graduates: Hannah Abbott, Susan Bones, and Justin Finch-Fletchley. And what a sinister group they were; especially Hannah, adorned with a single badly-drawn skull, to which Susan added little hearts and cherubs so it wouldn't be quite so frightening. The skull was the pride of their clan.

The man cleared his throat. "I am here to bring to your attention the fact that we have disabled the powers of each of our victims successfully, and sparked terror within the Ministry. They do not have a single clue regarding our secret organization, and if things keep up, they probably never will." He halted his speech momentarily to engage in a session of cackling, which ended abruptly when he started to choke. "The victims are now in varying states of confusion, but most of them are still within their comfort zones. In a time which I deem right, we shall kidnap them from their petty little families and friends to make them our blind minions."

An eerie silence followed the man's words, hung heavy within the mansion. But not for long.

"Can I have a sex slave?"

Much groaning and eye rolling ensued.

"Pleaaaaase? Pretty pretty please?"

"Justin, for the last time: _no_," Ernie scolded the boy."Sex slaves are not menacing enough."

"Yes they are."

"No they aren't."

"Yes they are."

"No way."

"Yes way."

Ernie paused for a moment. "Yea, well, your face."

Hannah and Susan gasped at his daring insult. Justin was immediately silenced.

"_As I was saying,"_ the man brought attention back to his throne, "the kidnapping shall ensue when I decide it should. Which may very well be shortly. I suggest you all prepare; our moment has nearly come. And when it does, I promise you that we will rock and roll all night. And party every day," he added as an afterthought. KISS were very menacing. Right?

Indeed they were.

The followers cheered, Priscilla meowed in triumph, and the man was very pleased with himself.

Very, _very _pleased.

**x x x x x x x x x x x **

Draco was shaking with anger. He had just been told the absolute truth. His mother was dead. His father was actually his mother. He was destined to fail at retrieving The Ring from Frodo in an epic battle of checkers, the Atkins diet was all a big fat lie, and --

The author got carried away. Sorry about that.

"I cannot _believe _I have stooped this low," Draco muttered contemptuously, pacing back and force and grimacing at the color of the carpet: olive green. Surely he would not be forced into such an atrocious situation?

And despite what they said, he knew for certain that he did _not _lose his powers. They were simply on vacation. In the Bahamas. Having a very charming time, at that.

"For your information, Malfoy, if it weren't for us, you would still be lying helplessly in a bar," Harry snapped at the blonde.

"So?"

"You would be at the mercy of a barman and a pair of deranged bums. But we saved you. Very heroically, might I add."

"..._So?" _

"We are your rescuers. We deserve to be thanked."

"I fail to see your point, Potter."

The Boy Who Lived was quickly becoming The Boy Who Was Getting Really, _Really _Livid. Bringing Malfoy to his flat was _his _idea, wasn't it? Everything bad was always his fault. It never failed. Harry briefly considered brooding for a moment. Ah, sweet brooding. How it called to his tortured soul. But the man nobly decided to ignore his urges. Remember children: STAY OFF OF BROODING. Stay off of drugs as well... but mostly brooding.

Hermione's sharp voice brought everyone into focus. "Look, seeing as arguing is getting us absolutely _nowhere, _I think we should settle down and sort this out like civilized adults. Do you suppose we could do at least do _that_?"

Ron pondered this concept for a moment. "Hmmm... nope."

"For _Merlin's_ sake! Look, it is obvious that Malfoy is in a vulnerable situation and therefore -- "

"I am still in denial about my _vulnerability,_ thank you very -- "

"Fine then! As I was saying, Malfoy is clearly going to have to receive some psychological and possibly medical help --"

"_Ahem_._"_

"Oh, just get _over _yourself, blondie! Now, to the point: I suggest we let him stay with us until he is healed."

"_What!_ But it's not like he'd do the same for us!" Ron exclaimed with fervor. Rooming with a _Malfoy_... now that was just crazy talk. Hermione was clearly a heretic. Or a Satanist. Or something to that effect.

"But we're _better _than that, Ron," Hermione told him soothingly. "He has nowhere else to go."

"And he will return the favor once he regains his powers," Harry remarked, giving Draco a meaningful glance.

Ron raised a pair of flaming red eyebrows. "He will?"

"Of course he will."

"This is blackmail, Potter," Draco grumbled. "Blackmail!"

"Do you have any _other _ideas? You can always run back to mum and dad or --"

"Fine, _fine," _Draco spat scathingly. Lovely, this was just absolutely _lovely_.Potter was so going to pay for this.

And no, he did not need to regain some silly _powers _to make him do so.Really, what an absurd thought.

Harry grinned in self-satisfaction for a moment. No brooding as of yet; he decided that he made a very good voice of reason.

"Now, where will he sleep?" Hermione raised the million galleon question.

"I say we lock him in a room and feed him by means of a ridiculously long poll!" Ron suggested helpfully.

"_Ron! _What did I tell you about bolting people up," she scolded him. "It's inhumane!"

"Since when has Malfoy been human?"

"Hermione's right, you know. If we stick him in a room and don't let him come out, he'll destroy our stuff," Harry pointed out sympathetically.

"I propose planting me on the most lavish bed in the house and bringing in a harem of exotic dancers to feed me grapes and obey my every preposterous command," Draco stated. The man decided that if he had to stay with three blatant losers, he was going to do it with _style_.

The trio collectively raised an eyebrow.

"What? The people have spoken!" Draco continued righteously, England's flag waving patriotically in the nonexistent breeze behind him. "Now go forth, minions! Obey thy leader!"

There was silence. It was very exciting.

"I suppose you could stay in the office room if we put a mattress there," Hermione said, sighing a little. That was where all her books were. They were surely going to melt into heaps of rubbish in the presence of Malfoy, who was probably going to contaminate the room heavily with hairspray. Oh, how she would miss her books dearly.

"As long as he doesn't have to stay in one of _our _rooms," Ron grumbled. Harry nodded in agreement.

Draco, however, wasn't going about to be complacent. "_Excuse _me? I am going to stay in an _office?" _

"The other option is to share a bed with me and Ron. Ron sleeps in the nude, you know."

Draco grimaced. Didn't the blasted redhead have any _sympathy _for other humans? For a moment, he sorry for Hermione, just a little.

..._Nah_.

"This is clearly a two room apartment," Draco stated confidently. "Therefore, I will get room number two."

"Harry sleeps there."

"Not anymore, he won't."

Hermione was starting to get really exasperated. "Malfoy. Office. _Now."_

"_Never_."

**x x x x x x x x x x x **

Draco was still in disgusted awe over the fact that he had been convinced to sleep on some cheap _mattress _on the _floor_. This _had _to be illegal. His complexion would suffer greatly, he concluded with much woe, putting on a pair of silken, embroidered boxers. Even in the most absurd and repulsive situation, he vowed to never stop dressing his best. It was simply a matter of pleasing his adoring public, who he knew needed him.

Because he was still very powerful.

Really, he was.

Tucking himself in smugly with that thought in mind, he eyed a certain... contraption. He had no idea how else to describe it. It was on a large, painfully organized desk (clearly Hermione's) on the other side of the room.

_Curiouser__ and curiouser, _he thought, unaware that he was quoting Alice in Wonderland. _Hah, _what a sap.

...I'll shut up now.

He decided to take a look at it, seeing as he would never be able to fall asleep anyways, and thus would get dark circles around his gorgeous grey eyes and end up looking like a vampire. _That look is notoriously trite and very last year_, he noted with much horror, shaking his blankets of himself and getting up.

The contraption has buttons. Little plastic buttons. With numbers. This was a tad ominous, Draco decided. The beige color of the contraption was a little frightening, as well; he knew for a fact that though olive green is blatantly evil, beige is the silent killer.

The buttons, though... they were very glossy. Draco liked glossy things. He pressed one button for a moment, just to see what would happen.

It beeped.

Draco jumped. _My god, this thing is definitely murderous_.

He decided that messing with the unknown occult is an incredibly idiotic and _Gryffindor _thing to do. Thus, he went back to his mattress, a little shaken, and lay himself to sleep.

But the buttons continued to haunt his dreams, their beige rich and gorgeous as the gleaming, raven black numbers caressed him lustily, whispering dirty words in his ears and --

...I promised to shut up, didn't I?


End file.
